


a date with destiny

by Regency



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, F/F, Flirting, Kissing, School Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 06:56:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11143206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regency/pseuds/Regency
Summary: AU. Bernie Wolfe is only reluctantly attending her high school class reunion tonight, but former Head Girl Serena Campbell makes the event a real pleasure.





	a date with destiny

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ktlsyrtis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktlsyrtis/gifts).



Bernie only showed up at her class reunion because she caved massively to peer pressure.

She and her squadmates had been shooting the breeze on the transport home when the matter of leave plans came up and Bernie mistakenly confessed she had none. Her marriage was well kaput and in its death throes, which she’d come back to Afghanistan specifically to escape.  Things with Alex had cooled down to the point that Alex was almost certainly spending her leave with someone else, leaving Bernie at a loose end. Seeing the dawning of various pity invites, she’d hurried to assure them her thirty-odd-year class reunion would be plenty to keep her busy–if she bothered to attend, which she hadn’t decided at that point. She should have left well enough alone.

Most of her squadmates were high-flyers, the type who’d never met a social challenge they couldn’t conquer with a grin. They didn’t know the meaning of never wanting to go home again, and they didn’t know why she did.  She supposed she only had time to blame.  Letting her work speak for itself only went so far when she was competing with boastful males of the species.   Her chosen profession had necessitated speaking up for herself and her abilities, or else she would never have advanced. So deeply introverted Berenice Griselda Wolfe learned to get her point across and earned a reputation for being direct and to the point, even entertaining and sociable under the right circumstances. Thus, her colleagues began to mistake her for someone who _enjoyed_  throwing herself on the mercy of the social scene. They were horribly mistaken and Bernie was paying for it.

 

* * *

 She was going to stay for an hour. She was going to have exactly three rounds of excruciating small talk, then she was fucking off home for the new episode of Bake Off, because she needed to unwind and there was nothing like Mel and Sue’s antics for it. But before she could accomplish any of that she had to get through the registration line.

She nodded absently at the three overachievers from her class and the year above who tried in vain to draw her into nostalgic chitchat about her favorite instructor. She’d fled St. Winifred’s like her loafers were on fire the minute she could and drank to oblivion every memory of the place that involved a classroom; she doubted she’d recognize the Matron on sight, and hoped the woman was happily retired far from tonight’s events lest she be pressed into an attempt.

“Berenice Wolfe. There’s a name I haven’t heard for eons.”

Bernie glanced away from her newly affixed name tag to find her summoner sweeping down the grand staircase of the assembly house’s main thoroughfare.

“I’m sorry, do we–oh!” Bernie was instantly transported back in time thirty-four years to when she was all limbs and too little grace and couldn’t talk to a girl to save her life.  Soon-to-be Head Girl Serena McKinnie with her cabernet blazer and shin-length paisley skirt and matching ribbon in her hair was trying to get her to sign a petition to change the dress code because _these skirts are ghastly, don’t you agree?_  She’d asked presumptuously as though agreeing was the only option and Bernie had signed, because agreeing was the _only_ option. The skirts were that much of an eyesore. Serena’s ensuing grin hadn’t been. She’d beamed at Bernie and said, “Aren’t you a doll? You don’t know how much help you’ve been,” and then she’d bounded off, intent on her next target. Bernie hadn’t gotten one word in during the exchange nor in any interaction afterward. She’d been too tongue-tied.

“Serena McKinnie.”  

The woman smiled genially at being remembered, as if anybody who’d attended St. Winifred’s School for Girls could possibly forget the most outspoken, outstanding, academically decorated Head Girl in the school’s 140-year history.

“Campbell now. Divorced.” There was a detail that made Bernie sit up and take notice.   _Don’t get your hopes up, Wolfe. Don’t do it._ But they were already up. Here was Serena McKinnie, all grown-up and lovely beyond anything that youth had promised.  

“You’re looking…very well.”   Bernie wrenched her eyes from plunging neckline of Serena’s black cocktail dress to find Serena watching her, head tilted, her tiny smile unnervingly knowing. It was as if not a day had passed, except now Bernie knew how to keep her head when a pretty girl paid her any attention.  “The years have been kind to you.” Wasn’t that what old classmates said, sometimes even when it wasn’t true, though goodness was it true in Serena’s case.

“Not as kind as they’ve been to you, Bernie…Wolfe, is it?”   She scrutinized Bernie’s tailored suit with something like approval, perhaps even appreciation, and Bernie was glad she’d opted for comfort over conformity. Cocktail dresses weren’t typically her preference now that she was socializing on her own terms.

“Yes, it’s still Wolfe. I’m divorcing but I never changed my name.”

“Wise woman. Would that I had your foresight. Now I’ll be carrying that ridiculous man’s name forever.” She rolled her eyes.  “Enough about that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a reunion.”

“I lost a bet,” she lied outright. Better than admitting she was sucker for a transport plane full of camo-clad puppy eyes. She shrugged. “And it was this or curry for one while watching Bake Off. I figured some human contact might be in order.”

“Damn, that’s a hard itinerary to beat. I’d better make it worth your while to miss it, then, hadn’t I?”  Serena’s voice had gone deviously sultry and Bernie had to remind herself _again_ not to read into it.  Serena’d had the boys at St. Regis eating out of her palm for years; there had been no rumors to the contrary.

“Are you the welcome committee?” Bernie would have enjoyed registration much more had Serena been offering the icebreakers.

“Can you imagine a prettier one?” Serena winked at her.

Bernie tucked her hair behind her ear. “Don’t think I can.”

Serena helped herself to Bernie’s arm.  “Ha, I like you even more than I remember.”

Bernie didn’t remember Serena thinking about her at all. They’d had perhaps a dozen conversations in their years at school together. Serena was a social butterfly, always surrounded by friends and hangers-on or professors eager to mentor her bright young mind to greatness. Bernie had been much more the wallflower, though she had been likewise encouraged by members of the faculty to pursue her academic goals. They’d been neck and neck in many of their classes, only eclipsed by the odd impossible student who outpaced them both.  Serena had existed on the outermost periphery of Bernie’s private solar system, yet the distance hadn’t kept her from being its brightest star. Bernie couldn’t fathom what she’d been in return.

The clock tower bell sounded, its vibration shuddering through the foyer like a memory. It was the same bell that used to summon them to classes and chapel and dinner and bed during school. Bernie’s feet instinctively turned her toward the commissary given the hour and it was only Serena’s hands on her arm that kept her from heading toward the French doors.

“Darling, it’s just a recording. Purely for effect. We’re being called to the auditorium for tonight’s opening acts.  Prepare yourself, I didn’t plan the entertainment.” She led the Bernie away from the staircase and late coming guests into the assembly room that had been decorated, for lack of a more suitable word, for the occasion.   _It’s certainly festive._ Bernie would have done away with the bunting personally, not that anybody was rushing to consult her for decorating advice.

“Weren’t you on the planning committee? You used to be the head of  _every_ committee.”

“Yes, well, my life is substantially busier than it used to be. I can’t be everywhere. A girl has to delegate if she wants to get ahead.” Her smile faltered a moment before resuming its previous sunny strength. Bernie preferred her at her beaming finest. She would take her, regardless, really. _You’re not a teenager anymore_ , she warned herself.  It sounded more like encouragement than any disincentive. She wasn’t a teenager anymore; she was capable of so much more.

“You loathed delegation back then, thought it was evidence of weak leadership.”

Serena peered up at her thoughtfully, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. Her cheeks had grown pink like they used to be when they were young. Bernie thought now that young Serena was wonderful but unfinished; life experience had made her a masterwork and Bernie was no great fan of art, usually.  “You remember those years better than I do. I remember myself as an alliance-builder.”

Bernie snorted, swallowed it at Serena’s answering glower. “Sorry, sorry. I’m sure you’re right. I must be remembering incorrectly.”

“And what about you, Berenice Wolfe? What have you got up to? I expected you to take the footie world by storm with those legs of yours. I was disappointed to hear you hadn’t.”  Bernie’s legs felt a little weak knowing they’d drawn her notice.

“I became a surgeon and joined the army.”

Serena’s eyes lit up and Bernie was sure she wasn’t imagining how Serena leaned into her side. “How exciting.” There went that sultry tone again. At sixteen, Bernie would have combusted to be the recipient of it. At fifty, her skin felt tight on her frame and her mouth was dry, she felt jittery, on a high. Serena Campbell was a drug and Bernie was finished for want of her.

“Never a dull moment,” she said in lieu of any of that. There were countless dull hours in the field between emergencies, and Bernie would take years of them if it meant fewer losses of life. That wasn’t a story for civilians who would never live it firsthand.

“Do you wear a uniform?” Serena traced a varnished nail along Bernie’s clothed bicep. She seemed pleased at the muscle definition she found beneath Bernie’s blazer. Bernie began to rethink the rumor mill’s silence on Serena’s dalliances with the fairer sex. Had she merely not been listening? There was nothing indifferent about Serena’s touch.

“Every day.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear.” Bernie wasn’t imagining that purr either.  “You wouldn’t happen to be a _front line_ trauma surgeon, would you?”

“I am.”

“Aren’t you full of surprises? _The_ Berenice Wolfe. I’ve read your work, all of it. You’re brilliant. What you manage to accomplish in the field with limited resources would make some of us NHS consultants drop into a dead faint five minutes in. It’s impressive and I don’t say that lightly.” She hadn’t ceased the titillating scrape of her nail up and down Bernie’s sleeve, and Bernie struggled to think past it.

“I…”

Serena shot her a teasing look as she led Bernie to a seat on the third row of the furthest bank of chairs. Bernie didn’t recognize a single face in the crowd.

“And still at a loss for words. This is going to be boring evening if you can’t keep your wits about you when I’m flirting with you.”

“Was that flirting?”

Serena tutted. “Berenice Wolfe, I am going to kiss you tonight and you won’t even see it coming.”

Bernie laughed a little, looked around to see if anybody else was listening. Was not the least surprised to find them all more occupied with their mobiles than the speakers gathered on the dais. “I might now you’ve warned me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

Bernie turned to ask why not and found her lips occupied by Serena’s instead. Her lips were soft and slightly tacky from lipstick; it smeared over Bernie’s mouth and she cared not a wit, would quite happily let Serena mark her fill on Bernie’s body if she wanted. _Now that’s worth coming back for._   She tasted of wine, full-bodied and spicy, dark and rich as a mouthful of blackberries and blackcurrant, herbaceous and lush, overflowing–exquisite. Serena Campbell was a feast in one kiss and Bernie was ravening.

Bernie was drawing Serena over the armrest separating them into her lap when there was an obnoxious, punctilious clearing of the throat behind them. They reluctantly parted, panting and wetting their lips for a much desired second round.  Serena was staring at Bernie’s mouth as if hypnotized. Bernie was likewise enamored.

“Ehem, this behavior will not do. You may no longer be my students, but don’t think I can’t make you act your age.”

Bernie was again transported three decades backward, this time with a far less pleasing association. Serena yelped and covered her mouth to contain gasping laughter. Bernie was too busy stammering excuses to laugh. She wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. 

“Eyes forward, ladies. The headmistress is talking.” 

The Matron might be retired, but she never forgot her duty.

 _This_ , Bernie recalled, _is why I never come to these things._

Serena sat beside her affecting a perfectly serious posture despite her smeared lipstick and stuttering giggles.   _And that is why I do._

Bernie smiled smugly at one of her old classmates gawking from the front row and waved. At least she could finally say she’d kissed the Head Girl.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://sententiousandbellicose.tumblr.com/post/161571138460/for-berena-48-meeting-again-at-a-high-school).
> 
> Come flail with me about Berena on tumblr, at [sententiousandbellicose](sententiousandbellicose.tumblr.com).
> 
> Prompt: Berena - 48. meeting again at a high school reunion au
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognizable as being from Holby City. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.


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